


The Weakest

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Playing House, finn and poe love each other a lot, weird wartime pseudo-domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Poe shoves his hand through his hair. "Didn't know what to bring you."Finn frowns. "Why would you bring me anything?""I don't know, I thought I should.""I don't need anything," Finn says."I know, it's more like, a gift. You're making dinner for us, what the hell am I doing?""Eating?" Finn suggests. "Hanging out? That kind of thing. This isn't a transaction.""Yeah, yeah, true." Poe shakes off the itch of worry that wants to creep down his back. "Maybe I didn't think this through too well."Finn smiles. "You? Never.""Okay, good point." Poe pushes closer. "I'm going to kiss you now."Falling in love in the middle of a desperate liberation struggle was, admittedly, not Poe's greatest idea. Then again, he didn't have much, if any, choice in the matter. He might have been able to handle it better had the love been something quieter, steadier,subtler. He's as exhilarated and excitable as an adolescent, squeaky voiced, jumping out of his own skin, overcome with utter delight.





	The Weakest

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to Orchis, Hegemony, and GalacticProportions, for early reading and consistent challenge and inspiration. And then Orchis went and beta-read this, too. ♥
> 
> Early drafts of some passages were previously posted anonymously to FFA in response to writing prompts.

> if weakness is tender solicitous kisses I will be the weakest in the room
> 
> \-- CA Conrad

For anything other than an emergency klaxon, Poe wakes regretfully, slowly, unwillingly. Groaning, beating his fist into the bunk, he finally lifts his head and asks BB-8 to repeat the message. 

"Your meeting got rescheduled," Finn puts in before BB-8 can reply.

BB squeaks in protest -- _why'd I bother teaching you if you were just going to usurp me?_ \-- then delivers the same message.

"You didn't teach me," Finn points out. "LNG-4 did because you said I'd never learn so you weren't going to bother wasting your time."

BB chirps. _Oh, that's right._

Blearily, Poe looks around. His eyes aren't open all the way; there are creases from the pillow up and down his cheek. "Wait, what?"

Not quite in synch, they repeat themselves. Poe squints and rolls his lips together as he yanks a hand through his hair. "Meeting."

"No meeting," Finn tells him. He looks upside down. His head's down near the floor, his smile level with Poe's upended boots.

He _is_ upside down. Poe can't quite process this. "What're you doing?"

"Calisthenics," Finn says, pushing up onto his palms, shuffling around before bending, bending, impossibly flexible, like he's pouring himself off the wall back onto his feet. He's mostly naked, wearing just regulation briefs and one sock. When he shuffles and turns, his ass comes into view like moonrise: Splendid, arresting, gorgeous. Poe wakes up a little more. A man this big and strong shouldn't be half so graceful. Poe's pretty sure that Finn violates _a lot_ of laws, local and galactic. 

Finn springs from the arch and ends in a crouch right next to the bunk.

"Calis-finnics?" Poe suggests, but Finn just shakes his head at the attempted wordplay. "'scuse _you_ , that was great for someone on two hours' sleep."

"Go back to sleep," Finn tells him gently, massaging Poe's knee through the coverlet. "There's no meeting."

"No meeting," Poe echoes. "So why am I up?"

Finn smiles at him. "Maybe you're dreaming."

"Yeah, maybe." Poe rolls onto his stomach and rubs his face into the pillow. "But not, because you're not here."

"I'm right here."

"You're out there," Poe says and wiggles to get more comfortable as he waves his arm blindly, "not _here_ -here."

"I have appointments."

"I know. I'm just saying."

Finn drops a kiss on Poe's shoulder. "I'll see you tonight, right?"

"Woudn't miss it," Poe tells the pillow.

*

Last month, Poe executed an absurdly dangerous maneuver beneath a First Order capital ship. Prone, flying half-blind, he emptied the X-Wing's entire armament array and managed to blow out the reserve batteries before taking a hit just as auto-jump engaged. Unconscious, he spent two standard days floating dark down a minor hyperlane before BB-8 succeeded in rebooting himself and was able to signal for help.

The quarter-moon before that, Finn led a small force into contested territory to meet a local cadre. They were to deliver munitions, evaluate fitness and immediate conditions, and then offer further training. He got caught upon extraction when, posing as Republican mining inspectors, his group's cover got blown by a jumpy port staffer.

Finn had only been back twelve hours when Poe was recovered. He and their local contact staged a prison break that landed him back on top of the Order's Most Wanted and, for the first time, on the Republic's as well.

"We," Poe said when they finally saw each other again, "are so damnably _stupid_. And lucky." He spoke right into Finn's ear, wet heat and sound, holding him close; Finn clutched at Poe, one hand in his hair, the other on his waist. "Who do we even think we are?"

Finn laughed through a hoarse, racking sob of relief. "I have no idea."

Stress and worry are so constant, tension running at a nearly unbearably high pitch, that they hardly register any longer. Then death gets a little too close, just a bit, and the world, its illusion of, if not safety, _persistence_ , falls apart. Like overripe fruit under the toe of a boot, that apparent order vanishes as pulp gushes, seeds well up, the rind resounds, and flies begin to gather.

The base here on Gwadel is a converted ranch. It was abandoned long before the Resistance took over, so the land is overgrown and reverting to a relatively wild state. The long, low main house serves as headquarters for strategy and communications, while the outbuildings, originally dedicated to processing harvests and housing the hands, became auxiliary support and crew dorms. Finn and Poe's bunk is in the residence closest to HQ; that proximity is just about the only evidence of their rank. Leia Organa's forces don't stand on ceremony or very much discernible preference. Everyone lives like everyone else. 

The sole exception to that rule is Family Quarters. FQ is meant to be a facsimile of how many relationship units across the galaxy live together. They cook, sleep, bathe in relative privacy.

The Togruta in charge of allocation told Finn all this when they were seated together at some briefing or other. He had inquired politely just what FQ was. They explained, noting that there wasn't enough room for FQ-housing to be permanent. Instead, relationship units cycled through the quarters before returning to regular housing. Finn nodded along and the Togruta added, almost apologetically, "it's one ideal, admittedly, not something that applies to everyone."

Some are still so careful with Finn, anxious to be both informative and to appear open-minded. They treat him like a weak-lunged ambassador from a distant, watery world, equal parts ignorant and innocent and incapable of learning.

"That sounds great," he replied, at which they visibly relaxed. He wondered what they'd been worried he might say. Were they fearing some long, angry rant about how the First Order shattered natural and voluntary bonds and connections, substituting in their place rigid hierarchies and repulsive loyalty? Some people that he met seemed to expect such condemnations, almost as the price of his presence. When he didn't comply, when he remained as calm and affable as he usually felt, their disappointment was nearly palpable.

He told Poe about the conversation later, when they were back in their bunk. "I don't want to complain, man," Finn said, "they were really nice, but--"

Poe brushed his fingers up and down Finn's chest. "But it still felt weird."

"Yeah, a little." Grateful for the sympathy, Finn relaxed, his mind turning to other things. He was startled, then, when Poe spoke.

"FQ, huh? I remember those."

Finn shook his head and pinched Poe lightly. "You weren't even three when Endor happened."

"Yeah, but I remember." Poe paused and took a breath; Finn apologized and Poe squeezed his hand. "Pretty sure I do. It smelled like disinfectant and some kid before me left a broken stick-jumper model."

"Lovely," Finn said. "Sounds very homey."

"Ha, yeah." Poe rolled onto his side, throwing his arm across Finn's chest. "My dad tried to fix it for me and then my mom had to fix what he did. I loved it there. It wasn't home but it was better. They were there, you know?"

Finn didn't know, but that was just a rhetorical flourish, not a question to answer literally. He rested his cheek against Poe's arm.

The next evening, when Finn was back from a recruiting appearance, Poe announced that he'd wrangled an FQ booking. "Just for one night, but pretty great, right?"

"Why?" Finn blurted. He was tired and slightly confused. As soon as he saw Poe's face fall, he knew that he'd misspoken. "I mean, wow! That's great."

"Fuck. Thought you wanted to go," Poe said. "I thought--"

"I didn't think about it one way or the other."

Poe nodded, his mouth working an anxious line. "I can cancel."

"No, don't! I didn't say that." Finn needed a moment or two to adjust to the idea, that was all. Sometimes Poe moved so quickly, he was so eager to fix any (perceived) mistake or discomfort, that Finn never quite got the chance to consider the situation one way or the other.

A misunderstanding didn't have to congeal into a mistake. It didn't require fixing, or an apology. Finn found it difficult to say so, even to Poe, to whom he could say just about anything. Maybe that was because he himself was still so prone to making actual mistakes. 

Whether by accident or design, their night in FQ comes just before Poe returns to the active duty roster. He Has been on med leave, thanks to the concussion he sustained while in the hyperlane. He maintains the concussion is so mild, so far from a big deal, that he can't even feel it; Finn keeps noting that that is not how concussions work, to little avail. Rather than resting fully -- a prospect that everyone from Kalonia to the general to BB-8 agrees is both laughable and absurd -- Poe has been training new pilots on a variety of tactical simulations.

Finn spends the morning in meetings and then reviewing reports concerning his prison escape. He works through lunch to finish up revisions to the protocols for ground assault. That way he has a few hours to himself, to check his plants and call Poe's father to review the recipe for dinner.

The general calls Finn's plants his "kitchen garden", though tonight is the first time he's going to use them for cooking. Growing them began out of idle curiosity. Kes had sent Poe some snacks from home and Finn didn't want to throw out the seeds littering the bottom of the parcel. He sprouted them in a makeshift tub filled with mineral solution, just to see if it would work. Poe said they'd done the same thing in school. It wasn't that Finn wanted to replicate a normal education, but there were things about it that appealed. 

The shells split after a few days. Green shoots snaked upward. Not all the sprouts survived, of course; some seeds remained dark and inert, while others sprouted black mold. Enough did survive, however, that he considered the experiment a success. He didn't have the space for a terrarium in their cramped bunk, so he adapted some discarded irrigation tubing to hang from the ceiling. The plants are suspended above a microscreen through which nutrient-rich fog drifts at regular intervals. The fog pulses in the wake of a thumb-sized aerial UV emitter.

When he was captured, Finn missed Poe and Rey the most, of course, but his plants came a close second. Poe, and then Pammich Nero when Poe got hit, tried to keep an eye on the plants. 

Finn has been playing clean-up and salvage of their well-intentioned efforts ever since he got back.

This afternoon, he fusses over the garden at length. Poe is off with the baby pilots, with BB-8, so Finn has the bunk to himself. He rarely gets to take his time doing this, so he lets himself enjoy the whole process. First he cuts a few shoots to use as seasoning, then the whorled leaves off the single Yavin spirochoke for a salad. He turns to trimming extraneous leaves, cleaning the filters, and minutely adjusting the strength of the artificial sun. With a pair of tweezers he borrowed from med-bay, he teases apart the hair-thin roots of one herb. He uses his thumbnail to scrape off the speckled remnants of a failed graft on the shaft of another. When everything is clean and tidied, he takes some stills of the apparatus to send along to Kes. Poe has told him about the garden, apparently. Kes is interested enough, or nice enough, to want details. "The old fart's crazy for growing shit, Finn, you don't understand!" 

Finn places the holocall when he has let himself into the FQ suite. Family Quarters occupies a repurposed composting and soil-production facility. It still smells faintly of clinging dust and dry, flaking things here.

It will still be light for another hour or so, but the cold of the night is already creeping into the shadows. The suite reminds him of shipping containers, perfectly square rooms arrayed in a row. In the kitchen, he chops up the salad greens and sets the stock to simmer while he waits for the call to connect. Calling out from base to anywhere not officially Resistance territory involves an intricate snarl of jumps and digressions. Poe maintains stoutly that Statura's comms techs make the prospect of calling out more difficult than it needs to be in order to discourage frivolous calls and thus save themselves some work. Finn is not sure about that, but he doesn't argue, lest Poe and Statura's longstanding animosity blow back up.

He enjoys talking to Kes. Finn doesn't have firsthand knowledge or, really, any expectation at all of what a father should be like, one way or another. Poe says that is an advantage. "That way," he claims, "Kes can't disappoint you with his utter... _Kes-ness_ ", whatever that is. Finn hasn't noticed any strangeness, not so far. Kes is just a warm, outgoing person, curious, maybe more enthusiastic about fertilizers and topsoil restoration than other people, but nothing truly out of the ordinary. (As if, Finn reminds himself, he has very much idea what constitutes "ordinary" in the first place.)

Kes listens attentively to Finn's description of the nutrient fog, offers some ideas about how to improve the circulation rates, and then makes Finn go through the recipe for Macondo stew step by step. Finn combed the holonet for what looked like good recipes, ones that sounded like Poe's descriptions. He combined what looked best into this one. Kes, however, has more opinions than seems, technically, possible. Each step gets elaborated, revised, occasionally even mocked, before Finn can move on to the next. By the time they're finished, Finn feels a lot more confident about what he'll be making. Also weary, a little raw from talking this long.

"Just make sure to stir it every so often, don't let it boil away, and you'll be fine," Kes says at the end of the call. "You shouldn't worry so much. You're doing great. Anything else?"

Kes sounds so much like Poe -- why do they think he worries too much? As far as Finn's concerned, he might not worry _enough_ \-- that Finn forgets what he was going to say. Kes lifts an eyebrow inquisitively and, not thinking, Finn asks, "How'd you do it, anyway? _Why?_ "

Kes squints a little. "What's that?"

He shouldn't have said anything; Finn's stuck here now, however, so he presses on. "I've just been thinking about things. Life." _There's your first mistake, right there,_ he can hear Poe saying. "Me and Poe. You were already married during the Rebellion--"

"Oh, Finn. _Finn_. You know--" Kes suddenly looks and sounds so sad, his shoulders sagging, his voice roughening, that Finn immediately regrets saying anything that might have made him think about Poe's mother. Before he can take it back, however, Kes leans in, hands clasped under his chin. "You know you can do a lot better than Poe, don't you?"

Surprised with relief, Finn laughs loudly but Kes keeps talking.

"That kid of mine, he's a _mess_. Good heart, sure. One of the best. But he talks with his mouth full all the time, flies like a brainless, brave idiot and a half, can't stop playing with that damn hair of his, _farts_ like a goat-lizard. And his feet--"

"They are pretty stinky," Finn agrees.

"They are! Don't be fooled by that funny face of his. Promise me."

Kes looks so intent, so theatrically concerned, that Finn nods. He tries to look serious. "All right. I promise."

"Good man." Kes scratches at his beard with the flats of his fingernails. After a moment, he says, almost musingly, "we were young, that's the thing. Thought we could handle it all. The war _and_ a relationship. A family. Maybe we needed to pretend we could, to act like it was part of ordinary life, just for some...some...." His hand circles. "Reassurance."

"I get that," Finn says, then amends, "I think I do, I mean." 

It's the way he focuses on trimming his herbs and unplugging the fog vents, or scrubbing clean his blaster, inside and out. It's the urge to help get everything in place, despite the circumstances, despite all that's working against them.

Now his stomach twists a little. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he's not so far from the First Order and its zeal to impose rules, organization, rigid structure everywhere as he'd like to think.

"Yeah," Kes replies, and his smile is Poe's, just bigger, caught in the silvery riot of his beard. "I expect you do." 

Finn hopes like hell that he's right.

*

Falling in love in the middle of a desperate liberation struggle was, admittedly, not Poe's greatest idea. Then again, he didn't have much, if any, choice in the matter.

He might have been able to handle it better had the love been something quieter, steadier, _subtler_. He's as exhilarated and excitable as an adolescent, squeaky voiced, jumping out of his own skin, overcome with utter delight.

Poe's session with the green pilots on the simulators runs late, no thanks to BB-8's determination to "improve" the resolution of explosions. Rather than head all the way across base to their bunk to get ready, Poe lets himself into the freshers of the nearest dormitory complex.

"Don't you have FQ tonight?" A Vrionian, an ex of Pava's if Poe remembers correctly, calls as they pass with Bastian in tow.

Somehow everyone on base seems to know his business. Poe figures that's mostly his fault--he's not exactly the soul of discretion when it comes to being happy--but it's probably also down to Finn, since Finn is still working out what he wants to keep private. So if you ask him how he's doing or what he has planned, he'll tell you, honestly and forthrightly. _I'm well, but the scar on my back's acting up_ or _Poe and I got time together tonight and I'm really looking forward to it because we haven't had sex for a week._

"Not everyone needs to know everything," Poe has said and Finn agrees. He's still working out how to put that into practice.

"Yeah," Poe calls back. "Hence getting ready."

"You need anything?" Bastian asks.

"I'm set, thanks."

"You sure? Spice? Wine? Lube?" Snickering, the Vrionian asks. "Complete personality transplant?"

That's right; Pava and the Vrionian did _not_ end on good terms. Poe flips them off before turning around to rinse.

Damp-haired, uncomfortable in overly-starched jersey and trousers, he is halfway to FQ when he realizes that he should probably bring something. Should he bring something? What would he bring? Finn knows everything that Poe has, knows, further, that he's welcome to anything he might need.

But a gift isn't about need, is it, but something else, something bigger.

He comms Karé Kun to check, just in case; she's stuck on maneuvers he ought to be doing, out near the Vogel cluster. When he asks, she laughs at him, so loudly, that he cuts the connection. She comms right back.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"No, you're not."

"No, not really. But sort of. A little. Mostly for Finn, of course."

"Funny," Poe says and kicks a rock that doesn't move very far at all.

"It is! Think about it. The poor guy gets himself out of the First Order, halfway across the galaxy, saves the day along the way, and what happens? He ends up right in your--"

"Don't say it." 

"--pants," she finishes, as if he'd never spoken. "What a let-down."

"Oh. That, too." He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe.

"What did you think I was going to say?" 

"Heart," Poe mutters as he looks around, as if he's being pranked. "Into my heart or something." 

"Oh, Dameron," Karé says, her voice heavy with mock pity, "we both know he was already there."

Poe rolls his eyes, but it isn't as if he can disagree. "Anyway. Do I bring him something or not?"

"How should I know?"

"I don't know, Kun! Thought you would, more fool I, sorry for--"

"It's because I'm a woman, isn't it?"

"No," Poe says. He's getting cold now, the closer to dark it grows. "Well, maybe. I don't know. Sorry."

"Believe me, if my gender meant I was actually halfway decent at relationships, don't you think I'd be all over that?"

He chews the inside of his cheek. "Yeah, good point."

"Ask Arana," Karé tells him. "He fancies himself pretty suave. He'll have some ideas."

"But he'll laugh at me."

"Of course he will," she says. "You're a very funny man with funny little problems."

Poe really should know the answer to this sort of thing. He's more than old enough, after all. By the time his dad was this age, Poe was nearly a teenager. He should not have to call his old squadmates for basic social advice. He should know very well how to handle his first visit to FQ as an adult; this probably shouldn't be his first, come to think of it.

He's making all this up as he goes along. Finn must have noticed by now; he's one of the smartest people Poe has ever met, after all.

"A ring," Iolo says promptly when the comm goes through. He should be flying patrol for the armory carrier, but knowing him, he managed a complicated series of trades to get a more interesting assignment. "Finger or dick, your call."

"Iolo--"

"I keep forgetting, is Finn pierced?"

"I'm not telling you that," Poe says. "You know I'm not going to answer that."

"Getting prim in your old age, it's very sad."

"You're eight months older than I am."

"Time was," Iolo continues, "you'd share _all_ the details, every dirty little secret and holostill of the action--"

Poe has to cut him off. It's not that Iolo's wrong -- he's right -- and Poe doesn't want to revist all the gory details of his former life. "So that's a yes on the gift?"

"You really should know this kind of thing by now," Iolo says.

"I _know_ , I should. What the hell's wrong with me?"

"Nothing." Iolo actually sounds gentle. Poe must be in a far worse state than he thought for that to be the case. "You're just, you know..."

"Yeah," Poe says, nodding. He shivers a little and runs his hand back and forth through his hair. In his mind's eye, he sees Finn, bending over his plants, the soul of concentration and kindness. Poe sighs. "I really am, aren't I?"

"You'll be fine," Iolo says. "And if you're not, tell Finn to get in touch? I'd _love_ to get to know him better."

"Fuck you."

Laughing, Iolo cuts the comm.

Poe tries to pick a big blue flower from the general's garden, but Threepio chases him off with threats of further disciplinary action. The last thing he needs is to be grounded for a minute longer; one more day without going up, he's liable to burn this whole base down.

He's almost at FQ now and still empty-handed. He cuts through the back of logistics, through the recycling and furnace complex. Packing materials are piled everywhere, waiting to be repurposed or burnt.

He helps himself to a relatively clean sheet of plastiflex. He'll fold a blossom for Finn, that's what he'll do. The thought, that's what counts, everyone says so. His mother used to love the ones he made her; she kept every single one, he remembers that so clearly. She hung them in an ever-growing garland up the ladder to their sleeping quarters. 

He's pretty sure he remembers how to do this. He hasn't tried since he was at the town crèche, but how hard can it be, if he made them when he was so small? 

Much trickier, it turns out, far more difficult than he thought. He goes through four sheets before he gets the sequence down, and then he has to hunt down a good length of stiffened filament to act as the stem.

He is late and starving and freezing and his hair's a mess again when he finally arrives.

There's Finn, perfectly composed, even more handsome than he was this morning, smiling as Poe pushes his way inside.

"I'm so late and cold and starving and I'm really sorry, this is for you, it's stupid, sorry it's so terrible." Poe stops short, holding out the flower. He takes a deep breath. "What the fuck smells so good?"

Finn keeps stirring with one hand while he accepts the flower with the other. He looks it over, actually _studies_ it, before he carefully sets it aside and says, "no, this is really cool. Thank you."

"It's not, but believe me, the others I made were much worse." Poe shoves his suddenly-empty hand through his hair. "Didn't know what to bring you."

Finn frowns. "Why would you bring me anything?"

"I don't know, I thought I should."

"I don't need anything," Finn says.

"I know, it's more like, a gift. You're making dinner for us, what the hell am I doing?"

"Eating?" Finn suggests. "Hanging out? That kind of thing. This isn't a transaction."

"Yeah, yeah, true." Poe shakes off the itch of worry that wants to creep down his back. "Maybe I didn't think this through too well."

Finn smiles. "You? Never."

"Okay, good point." Poe pushes closer. "I'm going to kiss you now."

Finn blinks, his lashes hovering, his eyes glinting. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Poe breathes. His hands are warming already, touching Finn.

That's how it went down their first time, only with the roles reversed. Finn was standing on an observation deck in the old cruiser, the one they evacuated D'Qar on. He had one hand on the railing and he was motionless, barely blinking, looking out into the black. Poe had joined him a while back and was uncharacteristically, strangely, quiet. He just stood there, pretty close, and watched the trail of thoughts moving through Finn's face like light over water.

Poe wanted desperately to know just what those thoughts were. More than curiosity, he felt a need to understand Finn, how he thinks, what he believes, from the inside out.

Then Finn shifted a little. He looked Poe in the eye; the safety light behind them traced the voluptuous curve of his cheek. Finn smiled and knocked their hands, then their hips, together. He said, "I'm going to kiss you now."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Am I going to like it?" The question was blatantly disingenuous; Poe already knew he would, had known for a long time that he wanted nothing else.

Finn looked and sounded as grave as he ever had. "Sure hope so."

In the months since, Poe has asked him several times why then, what changed, but Finn maintains that nothing had changed. "It just felt right," he'll say. "Not a change, just the right time."

" _You_ feel right," Poe will rejoin, often accompanying his words with a clumsy grope, and Finn will have to groan a little at the dumb joke.

 

When Poe slips his cold hands up under Finn's jersey, Finn yelps into the kiss. His mouth is so warm, his touch so frigid, that for a few moments, Finn swings dizzyingly between the extremes. Finally, he slows, grounds himself, turns Poe around so he can keep an eye on the stew _and_ enjoy the kiss. Kissing, like eating good food, is one of those things that's always new, always every bit as good as the first time, if not better.

Poe's breathing hard when Finn reluctantly breaks the kiss. 

"Need to check this," Finn says, keeping one hand on Poe's chest. The stew looks fine, but he doesn't want to take any chances.

"What is it?" Poe asks.

"You'll see."

"Tell me."

"You'll _see_ , man, let it be a surprise."

Poe tries to shove him out of the way, but Finn blocks the hit, only to have Poe hook one of his ankles and pull him off-balance. When Finn stumbles backward, Poe darts in.

Poe peers into the pot, brow beetled, lips thin with concentration. Then he looks at Finn, who's regaining his balance, then back at the pot, then back at Finn.

"What?" Finn can't help but ask. 

Poe takes a bite and, smacking his lips, hefts himself up onto the sliver of counter between the cooking surface and the wall. He twists himself to fit, bends forward, and drums his heels against the cabinets. "Nothing."

"What?"

He shakes the hair off his forehead and shrugs. "Nothing."

Finn stirs the stew slowly, deliberately. "It's wrong, isn't it?"

Poe kicks him. Then, for good measure, he punches Finn's stirring arm. The liquid spatters and sizzles over the cooker. Finn jumps back, dropping the spoon, swearing and sucking at the burn on the meat of his thumb.

"That's what you get for being a neurotic weirdo." Poe grabs the spoon and helps himself to a good mouthful. He grins around it as he tastes and chews. He even makes happy _yum-yum_ noises. "Damn, this is Macondian! Holy shit, Finn! You used your herbs, didn't you?"

"Yes," Finn says, still sucking on the burn. He can't decide if he's annoyed that Poe pushed his way into ruining the surprise or happy that the surprise was a good one. Mostly, to be honest, he's irritated by how much the burn stings.

"You keep working your mouth like that," Poe says, sliding off the counter gracefully -- he _can_ be quiet, he just prefers to stomp around -- and taking Finn's hand to kiss the burn. "I'm going to forget what I'm hungry for."

Finn tries to roll his eyes, but Poe's mouth is forming, hot and slick, around his thumb. So he just grunts.

"Also your stew is delicious, you do everything great, you need to stop worrying and let me suck you off." As he speaks, Poe somehow moves incrementally closer until he's pressed right up against Finn, mouth moving over Finn's throat, hand grasping Finn's ass.

"Can I lower the heat first?" If he leaves it on high without stirring, he's going to lose the broth and be left with a sticky mess.

Poe shrugs. "Whatever gets you off."

"Do you want food or do you--"

"Yes," Poe says decisively. He nods a couple times to back it up. "Yes, I do. Both. Everything you've got. Gimme."

Poe needs a haircut. When he nods, a few curls slip across his forehead, calligraphic emphasis that bounces and skitters. Finn's never been able to look away from those curls. The first time they met, his focus narrowed all the way down to Poe's eyes and that hair; it had to, or else he was going to fly apart in panic. His fingers itch to twist up in them, tug on them, tuck them back. 

"Hey, you okay?" Poe leans in a little, squinting. Now Finn can see the spray of lines at the corners of his eyes, the double pucker over his nose, and the separate, smaller curls that fractally compose the one currently distracting him. "Fi-i-inn..."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You sure?"

"Of course. Where were we?"

Poe narrows his eyes. "Where were _you_?"

Finn's first instinct is to deflect the question. _Keep agile, stay moving, never remain a target for long_. That's not trooper training; it's what he tells Resistance recruits and local cadres. Trooper training emphasized staying locked in formation, doing exactly what you're told, never breaking out of line.

Finn has found that he's very good at breaking the line.

And yet he _also_ likes things in order, likes to know what to expect, so far as possible.

So here's Poe, all loud voice and strong hands and questing tongue, a force of nature, curl tumbling across his forehead

Finn doesn't want to _fix_ any of it, doesn't want anything like order. He wants to grab hold and swing out into the unknown.

When Poe smiles at him, everything happens all over again inside Finn. History recapitulates itself: the desperation that boiled over into thrilled relief, the trust that flared up between them, caught and trembled, then burned so much brighter. 

Finn doesn't know if this is normal, if he's ever going to get used to this. Not how close they can get, skin on skin, the heavy, reassuring pressure of another man's body tangled up with his own. How quiet it is, caught in Poe's arms, and steadying.

Poe looks at him sharply. "What?"

"Nothing." Finn's hands slip down over Poe's hips and squeeze as Poe's chin tips up and his eyebrow jumps. He's getting ready to argue. "Really, I'm just admiring the view."

Poe's mulishness gives way to a sudden, surprised grin. "Nah! Really?"

"Yeah," Finn says, groping Poe's groin, squeezing until Poe's eyes drift closed and he gasps a little. His mouth latches onto the hollow of Finn's throat. The vibrations run down through every layer of his skin.

They don't bother moving into the sleeping area, not even the parlor. Finn just backs up against the wall opposite the cooker and pulls Poe up against him, kissing him again, shuffling to slot their legs together. Poe's hands are nearly frantic, tugging at Finn's jersey, opening his flies, cupping him until Finn can't help but roll his hips into the touch as he bangs his head back against the wall.

"It's like an appetizer," Poe says, sinking a bit awkwardly downward. His left knee hasn't been the same since he got grazed over Starkiller. He insists, however, that Finn worries too much and sees things that aren't there. He rests his cheek against Finn's drawers, which are stretched taut over his yearning cock, and looks up, batting his eyelashes. The fabric is so thin that Finn can feel every puff of Poe's breath, corkscrewing in his dick, making him harder yet. "A palate cleanser, if you will."

Finn knocks his fist against Poe's shoulder. "If you haven't eaten yet, what's to cleanse?"

"Hell if I know," Poe replies and yanks Finn's drawers down with his thumb. "You're the cook. I'm just the--"

He never does finish that sentence. He's got the head of Finn's cock between his lips, Finn's balls skating over his palm, and he looks, somehow, both so smug and so content that all Finn can do is grin back down at him. He tries to steady himself with a hand in Poe's hair, but that doesn't work very well. Poe's determined, and Finn's thrilled; arm around Finn's waist, Poe gathers him in, closer and closer, working his mouth and lips and tongue feverishly hot and fast. He grunts whenever Finn does, so the seesawing duet escalates and accelerates, Finn's panting matching Poe's eager slurps. 

Sooner than seems possible, let alone remotely polite, Finn's arching off the wall, trying to push Poe off, tumbling over into orgasm. Poe's groaning back, swallowing hard, following Finn's thrusts down to the last aching quiver.

Finn shouted loud enough that his throat hurts now. He swipes at the sweat on his face with a shaking hand and offers the other to Poe. 

Poe leans against him, heavy and warm and a little clumsy, like he's the one who just came. He kisses Finn softly, murmuring so low that Finn has to pull back a little. "What's that?"

"You taste so good," Poe whispers. His eyes are half-closed, a smirk shimmering over his mouth. "Everything about you's delicious, _Finn_..."

"We'll see if you still say that after you've eaten," Finn tells him, pushing him away without very much force at all.

Arms looped around Finn's waist, Poe rests his forehead on Finn's shoulder. "In a minute."

Finn pats the rise of Poe's ass, then pinches when Poe grunts. "Can I...? Should I?"

Poe's smile is crooked, still smug, but strangely shy, too, when he looks up. "After."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Finn hugs him one-armed, stepping over to check the stew and bringing Poe with him. "Good, 'cause I want to take my time with you."

Poe waggles his eyebrows extravagantly. "Best news I've ever heard."

Finn tastes the stew, then takes it off the heat before replying. "That concussion's really something. Your memory's totally shot."

"What concussion?" Shuffling his feet, Poe follows him into the parlor, mouth agape, tongue lolling. "Dunno what you're talking about."

"Sit," Finn tells him. "Serve us both, I'll be right back."

 

The parlor sports a low, broad table around which several guests could gather. Poe arranges cushions at the corner closest to the kitchen, pours them both some sweetwater, helps himself to a couple spoonfuls of stew, and, finally, calls, "I'm going to start without you if you don't hurry up."

"Man, I'm right here!" Finn backs into the room, holding another dish. The dumb flower Poe gave him is tucked under his chin. He sets it on the table between them. "Do you even know how to _spell_ patience, let alone practice it?"

"No," Poe tells him. "Sorry, that concept is completely unfamiliar."

Finn passes him the salad. They eat in relative silence; they both enjoy eating too much, particularly anything that's remotely fresh and not a reconstituted protein amalgam, to spare time for talking. Poe leans back against the cushions, leg hooked over Finn's, their shoulders touching. Back in their cramped bunk, they're always comfortably atop each other. Finn has a small lapdesk he uses while sitting under his garden. Poe can run footage and simulations off BB-8 anywhere, and he usually does so while leaning against Finn's side or pillowing his head on Finn's thigh. Even when there's space enough, as there is here, they draw close.

"I can't believe you made Macondo stew," Poe says when the food is gone. Mere streaks on the platter, and those are vanishing as Poe licks his fingertip and wipes them up. "What did Kes say?"

"To make it spicier so you'd burp a lot, actually."

"Ass," Poe says and shakes his head. "He didn't get on your case, did he?"

Finn frowns. "What do you mean?"

Shrugging, Poe makes a face. "I dunno, it's that comedy cliché, right? 'Are you good enough for my son? Maybe. For my recipes? Never!' All that silliness."

Finn stacks the platters and sets each utensil facing the same way. "There are a lot of rules and expectations, aren't there? A neverending series of them."

Poe opens his mouth, then closes it. Finn is so acutely sensitive to what he doesn't know, to what he thinks must be his own ignorance, as well as to what people expect from him, to the full array of _their_ knowledge. After another few moments, Poe says, "most of the rules like that are Banthashit. Dumb jokes or ways to inhibit other people. Ignore 'em. You're doing fantastic."

Finn smiles a little. He stands and picks up the stack of platters. "That's good to know, thanks."

"I'm not just saying it! You're good at everything," Poe says as they wash up. "What's next? Thinking of taking up X-Wing flying?"

Finn laughs and bumps into his hip. "Never dream of it."

"You could, though," Poe says, flipping on the switch for the composter, then turning to lean against it, arms loosely crossed. "You'd probably rock the controls. Better than the adorable dipshits I've got now."

"Aw," Finn says lightly. "They'll shape up."

Poe lifts an eyebrow. "Hope so."

"I," Finn says, hand on Poe's waist, backing him up out of the kitchen, "believe in you." He kisses Poe as they shuffle toward the low chaise across from the parlor table. "Now--"

"Is this dessert?" Poe asks, nipping down on Finn's neck, his chin, then pulling a little way back to tug his shirt off over his head. "Please tell me this is dessert."

"Depends," Finn replies, pushing Poe back; his legs hit the edge of the chaise and he drops with a surprised _oof_. "Do you need some time to let dinner settle?"

"Fuck, no," Poe tells him, reaching up, tugging at the waistband of Finn's trousers. "Let me have it."

Finn drops down in stages, first to kiss Poe, long and lingering, then, further, to the floor. He pushes Poe's knees apart, as wide as they'll go, and reaches for his flies.

"Can I?" Finn asks, and Poe's lifting his ass, letting Finn pull down his trousers. Poe's so hard, he can feel his drawers sticky and tented over his dick.

"You can," he says, and grins. "Fuck, Finn. _Anything._ Everything."

Sometimes, even now, Finn still gets that look of appeal, serious pleading mixing with a resignation that he probably won't get what he's asking for.

"I really want to." There's that look. Right there, as he's peering up from between Poe's legs. "Want _you_."

"Don't be silly," Poe says, hand on Finn's cheek, first two fingers trying to rub away the worry curving Finn's brow. "Of course. Anything, I want you, too--"

Finn gets overwhelmed with feelings, Poe figures, needs to _say_ something. Not quite ask for permission so much as pose the possibility before taking what he wants.

He's taking before Poe can finish speaking, licking his lower lip, opening wide, and then Poe's yowling, head falling back and hand grabbing at Finn's ear, as Finn fucks his mouth, then his throat, on Poe's cock in one smooth, endless swallow. 

He sucks until Poe feels pulled filament-thin, lightyears long, a single route pouring into the perfect depths of Finn's perfect mouth. Whatever Finn does, whatever he tries -- hydroponic gardening, Macondian cuisine, prison breaks, hourslong blow jobs -- he's passionate and committed, sweet-natured and excellent. Poe fights to stay still, fights to remember to think, to breathe, to _memorize_ this. He needs to remember this, he can't ever forget this, any of this. 

Poe can hear himself chanting Finn's name, has to unlock his fingers from Finn's shirt. He shakes his head several times until the sweat clears from his eyes. Finn keeps dragging him right to the edge, then pausing, _throbbing_ , only to ease up enough that the threatening orgasm recedes.

"Fuck, please," Poe says, and Finn suckles the head of his cock so gently and shallowly that Poe has to bite the side of his own fist. After several shimmering, weightless moments, he tries again. "Finn."

One hand on the chaise, Finn pushes himself upward. His breath breaks hot over Poe's face. "I really want to fuck you."

Poe nods, again and again, his hair bouncing in damp, shapeless clumps. What's left of his nervous systems fluoresces, lights him all the way. "Please. Yes. Come on."

Smiling a little, Finn leans in even closer. "Kiss me."

Poe does, Poe surges up until both arms are wrapped around Finn's neck and he's kissing him, lifting a leg to get his foot flat on the chaise and open himself up. Finn's stroking his crack, murmuring into the kiss, but Poe's not making much sense of anything. He can't think beyond the heat of Finn's touch, the slick delicious taste of his mouth, the breadth of his hands as he moves Poe around and preps him and lays him out like yet another feast.

Finn moves so deliberately, so gracefully, that Poe feels half again as wild and needy just by contrast. He's a shuddering, sweat-splattered mess _already_ and here's Finn, stretching him open, smiling at him, _being_ so calm.

Finn has who knows how many fingers inside him now; Poe lifts his head, drags his teeth down the side of Finn's arm. "Finn."

"Keep doing that," Finn says. He loves to hear his name, always gets that much harder and wider-, brighter-eyed when Poe repeats it. "Yeah, _yeah_."

"Fuck me, Finn, I--"

Finn nods, suddenly grave. He's half atop, half in front of Poe, pulling Poe by the hips towards him. "I want to be inside you."

The low light from the kitchen skates over the tilting line of Finn's shoulders, picks out his brows, the wet swell of his mouth. Poe arches his back and lifts himself higher yet, digging his heel into the back of the chaise. He's twisted, half on his side, half on his back, spread wide as the horizon. He won't be able to hold it like this, not for very long, but Finn's got him. Finn's hovering over him now, gazing down at him, and his breath hitches and holds as he presses inside. Pushes, then holds, until Poe starts saying his name again, in time with the rock of his hips, and then Finn's _smiling_ at him, radiant, so pleased, pushing all the way in. 

Poe has no more breath, though he's still babbling. His hands are slipping off everywhere he tries to touch, and Finn's fucking in harder, deeper. He kisses the base of Poe's throat until it's a bite, a bruise, and Poe is nearly nothing, just sensation, twitching reactions to Finn's touch and need and desire.

Finn slows down, lets Poe breathe a little. He cups his cheek, working his thumb along Poe's lower lip. "Hey."

"Hey," Poe tells him, like it's a whole monologue, chockfull of his deepest feelings and fondest hopes. "Hey."

Finn's hips move faster and his fingers flex in their grasp on Poe's thigh. Poe can hear his breath, like it's travelling right along with his cock, swelling and filling Poe to his very limits.

Poe moves against Finn, pushing back and tightening at the bottom of each thrust. He imagines holding Finn here, caught deep and fast, for ages, forever: Finn filling him all the way up, their skin adhering, their mouths open and panting. Finn's forming Poe around him, building him outward, making him better and brighter.

Poe's twisted up again, somehow on his side _and_ on his back, facing Finn and folded as helplessly, as messily, as the plastiflex flowers he left behind. Finn kisses his neck, his chest, then fastens his teeth when Poe says his name again. 

"Come on me," he says, rolling Poe over, almost tipping him off the chaise. Poe flails, clenching his hole and his hands for purchase, and ends up on his knees, riding Finn. Finn gazes up at him, chest hollowing, as he wraps his hand around Poe's dick. He's gentle and firm, big and soft. "I want to see. Need to feel you."

"Yeah," Poe says, because _everything_ he is right now is agreeable, positive, illuminated. "Oh, man. _Yes_."

Finn runs his hand up and down the center of Poe's chest, then grasps his dick again and pulls. He's watching, smiling a little, thrusting in counterpoint to the jerks of his wrist. His eyes are so _brilliant_ , taking in everything Poe is and wants to be.

Poe grabs for the back of the chaise; he's so loose, already fucked apart and silly, to be anything but utterly clumsy. But he tries, he leans back and lifts himself fractionally, bends himself around and for Finn, Finn's cock, Finn's need.

"Like that?" he gets out before sagging back down, trying to find Finn's mouth with his own. 

Finn holds Poe's hip and thrusts up, again and again, his tongue echoing the thrusts into Poe's mouth, before he says, "just like this, exactly, perfect."

Poe's shaking from his spine outward, grinding into Finn's hand, trying to open yet wider to take him even deeper. He hears Finn's voice, eventually understands, and he's already coming, collapsing, shooting all over Finn's stomach.

Finn catches him, kisses him with wide, wet mouth and holds him tight as he fucks upward, harder, ragged and impatient. Poe feels Finn's orgasm from his core, driving and widening, pushing him back over the edge.

"Poe," Finn croons in a whisper. He combs the hair off Poe's forehead. "Hey, Poe."

"Here," Poe says, eyes still closed. His body flashes in and out, overloaded nerves fluorescing in random patches, a trembling web of twitches and little spasms. "Fuck."

"Indeed," Finn says, smile in his voice. He rolls his face against the side of Poe's, then rests it there until their breathing synchronizes.

"That work all right for you?"

"Yes," Finn replies. "You?"

Poe is brimming over with light, his body jumbled up, a hasty, hysterical assemblage of sensations. He starts to laugh and then he can't stop. Wouldn't dream of trying to stop. "Like a new man."

Finn laughs, too, lightly, affectionately, as he struggles to sit up and peel away.

Afterward, they stumble the rest of the way into the sleeping room. Finn notes that they should probably wash up, but Poe holds tight, insisting on a nap first.

And then he can't sleep. He's buzzing all the way down to his toes; laughter is chortling through his veins, effervescing through his thoughts, spilling from his mouth.

"When're we getting hitched, huh?"

Finn snorts. "I dunno, when's good for you? First new moon after the peace treaty's signed?"

Poe runs his fingertips up and down Finn's forearm. Across his knuckles, around the knob of his wrist, back up. "I'm serious."

"No, you're not."

There it is again, that painful tingle. When something opens between them, something huge and empty that throws into relief all their differences. Every contradictory expectation and structuring belief widens the gulf.

Poe takes a breath. "I know it doesn't make sense to you, that sort of thing, what with your--"

"It's not brainwashing," Finn says.

Poe swallows and tries again. "I know that. I wasn't saying that."

"Okay, good." Finn sits up and looks around the dark, anonymous room. "We really should wash up."

"Yeah." Poe stretches, then gets up to follow Finn to the fresher off the kitchen. Neither of them bothers to turn on a light; Finn hits the spray, Poe fumbles for the soap, and they clean each other with eyes half-closed, shallow kisses and light, sure touches. The drier nozzle is clogged, so they rush, damp, back to the bed and dry off on the coverlet.

Poe sags a little, head on Finn's shoulder, while Finn scrubs dry his feet before lying back with a sigh.

"It's not that I don't understand," Finn says. "I do. I just don't--"

"You deserve it," Poe puts in. He lies down next to Finn; this bed is so much bigger than the one in their bunk. They could both lie with limbs spread and have room to spare. "You deserve to be happy."

Finn gives him half a smile. "Think pretty highly of yourself, huh?"

Poe rubs both palms over his face. "I meant--. Yeah, that came out really wrong. You deserve a lot better than, than--" He sweeps his hand up and down his torso. " _This_."

"Now," Finn says as he rolls over on top of Poe and pulls himself up so he's looking down at Poe, his hands bracketing Poe's shoulders. "You're just fishing for compliments."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"Yeah, okay." Poe screws up his face. They always slip back to this space, where it's warm and private, sweet and dear, where they understand each other, but that doesn't mean the times apart don't sting like hell and scare him halfway out of his wits. "Maybe."

"You're old, Poe Dameron." Finn moves gently, resting atop Poe, watching him with a kind, steady eye. "You're more reckless than the rest of the pilots put together. Braver, too. You value the fight so far above your own personal safety--"

"Yeah, but--"

Finn presses his mouth against the hinge of Poe's jaw. He breathes in and out as Poe's pulse ticks against his lips. Finally, he lifts his head to say, "I can't let any of that change. Can't be the reason, can't be your excuse."

He kisses Poe softly, steadily, lowering himself back down, as Poe's arms come around his neck and he kisses Finn back. 

That's not how it is, Poe wants to say. I'm not choosing one over the other.

But maybe Finn knows something Poe doesn't. He doesn't know what he doesn't know; he's sinking into a series of questions.

They doze for a while. It's so quiet here, nothing like their usual quarters. All they can hear is the rattle of the heating system and their own breathing. After a bit, Finn slips off Poe and they tip towards each other, face to face, right on the edge of the enormous bed.

Finn stirs from a chaotic dream, his arm flinging itself out and a shout escaping his throat. Eyes open now, heart hammering at the back of his throat, he waits to calm down. He realizes Poe is awake, too, watching him, hand heavy on the center of Finn's chest.

"Nothing novel," Finn tells him. He has a regular routine of nightmares; it's when they change, when something terribly new emerges, that he knows to pay attention. "Same old."

Poe rubs his chest slowly. "Want to talk about it?"

"Hell, no," Finn says. "What about you? Want to talk about earlier?"

"Yes," Poe replies, "but also no."

"Why's that?"

Poe pushes up so he's pillowing his head on his folded arm. He scratches and tugs at his hair. "So we're going to talk about not talking?"

Finn coughs. "Good point, sorry."

"It's all right. It's just--" Poe works his mouth around words that refuse to come. Finally, he manages, "I hate disagreeing with you."

"Poe--" Finn covers Poe's hand with his own. "I think we agree on what matters."

Poe knows he's right. "But--"

"Getting married, that wouldn't change anything."

"It could, though. It could be just what we need--"

"Poe." Finn says his name so gravely that Poe goes still and quiet. "What we _need_ is a way to win this. We need 27% more matériel, a significant boost in long-term funding, alliances that don't crumble if you look at them too long--"

Poe drums his fingers over his stomach. After several moments, he says, "I know you're right."

"But?"

"But nothing. I wrote that report, you know. That 27% calculation, that--"

"Was conservative," Finn says.

"Yeah, probably." Poe wishes he were flying right now. Not going anywhere, not shooting anyone, just _moving_. Finn probably suspects as much, since he's shifting away, giving Poe more room.

But he doesn't want more space, he doesn't actually want to be in the cockpit. It's just what he knows best, so much better than _this_ , whatever this is, this thing that he's somehow both too old and too inexperienced, far too immature, to handle.

"I don't want to lose you," Poe says finally and wiggles over to close the space Finn left open. "That's stupid, sorry."

"It's not stupid." Finn's profile against the dark is luscious, smooth and curvaceous. "Maybe there is something wrong with me."

"No," Poe tells him. His face is hot, his chest is hollow. "Stop it."

"It isn't enough that I have you. It's a lot, it means so much to me, but it can't be more important than, than. What we're doing out there. What we're fighting."

"It can be both!" Poe says loudly, then rubs his hand over his mouth. More quietly, he adds, "why can't it be both?"

"How would that work?"

"I don't know! How should I know? Isn't that how this kind of thing works?"

"What is this kind of thing?" Finn asks, his voice so quiet.

Poe buries his face against Finn's bicep. His arm tightens around Finn's waist. "This."

Finn doesn't respond aloud. His hand settles, light as a nightbird, on Poe's shoulder, then his hair. His chest rises and falls. Poe knows he has to wait while Finn works out what he's thinking. All the same, he wishes he could do it for Finn, help him, speed things up, so they get to the feeling better part that much faster.

"I will say one thing," Finn says a little later. "I do know one thing." He pauses and breathes. "Okay, two things."

"Hit me," Poe says thickly. He coughs and shakes himself a little more aware.

"I miss our bunk," Finn says. "It's tiny and crowded and you're a ridiculous slob but I miss it."

Poe lifts his face and studies Finn's expression, best as he can in the dark. "Yeah."

"It's probably stupid to waste this opportunity," Finn continues, "having this place to ourselves, what you gave us, but--" He stops so he can shift onto his side. "I miss our bunk."

"Let's go back," Poe says before he can think.

"It's probably -18 out there," Finn says, but he's starting to smile.

"So I guess we'll have to run." Poe is sitting up, reaching for his boots.

"You're serious?"

"Yeah, man." Poe looks over his shoulder, digging his chin against the bony knob. Finn's lying there, arm reaching toward Poe, his face baffled. "This place is not better than home. I was wrong."

"It really isn't, is it?" Finn sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His bare toes curl against the cold floor. "The cooking was nice, though."

"Your cooking is great," Poe tells him, and grabs his hand, yanking him in to kiss him. "But that's you, not this place."

Neither of them approaches normal; Finn might have been a Stormtrooper, but what was Poe? He's been in the military in some form since he was fifteen. He can fly anything you drop him in, but does he know what the etiquette is concerning a dinner date with his boyfriend? When you get down to it, he thinks, he doesn't know very much more than Finn. Not about the outside world, that is, about customs and clichés and ordinary expectations.

Wrapped up in thin blankets from the cabinet beneath the bed, they run, hand in hand, across the silent base. Finn carries the plastiflex flower in his free hand, curled against his chest to protect it. Their breath blooms in enormous frosty billows as their boots clang and thump on the frigid paths.

They both know their hearts, though. The truth of that, neither of them has ever doubted or given the other any cause to doubt.

"What're the odds BB-8's throwing a party?" Finn asks, breathless, as they ride the elevator down to their quarters. "What kind of degenerate droid spectacle are we letting ourselves in for?"

Poe whistles at the thought. "We should comm ahead, I think. Give them some time to clear out."

In the passage, while Poe places the call, Finn slides down the wall until he's sitting down, knees against his chest, head back, eyes closed. He must be so tired, so close to home. 

"What was the second thing?" Poe asks, crouching next to him and tucking his cold, wind-burned face into the warmth of Finn's neck.

"Two things." Finn's arm comes up around Poe's back. "I missed our bunk, one. Also, I love you."

Poe clutches at the blanket around Finn's side. "I was right! That's amazing, that never fucking happens."

Finn shakes him very lightly. "You knew I do."

"No, yeah, I did! But, see, I was just thinking about that--" He tips his head back; he can't stop grinning. He doesn't need to explain, he really doesn't. Finn understands him, often better, far more quickly, than Poe understands himself. "Never mind. Oh, _man_."

"What?"

"So happy."

"Me, too." Finn rolls his lips together, eyes scanning Poe rapidly. He slides his hand into the back of Poe's hair and tugs him closer. "I'm going to kiss you now."


End file.
